


Your Voice

by RestAssured



Series: Like-Minded Men Series [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Hair Pulling, Infidelity, John Wants Apologies, M/M, Oral Sex, Sherlock On His Knees, Slightly Dom!John, Smut, lip biting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 01:33:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1491868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RestAssured/pseuds/RestAssured
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Finale of the Like-Minded Men Series] Sherlock is home, Post-Reichenbach. John visits and figures out who was on the other end of those phone calls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Voice

John’s heart was still pounding in his ears when he found himself in front of 221B Baker Street at three in the morning. His fist was still curled, and his knuckles were still hard, and most importantly, he was still irrationally glad to know that Sherlock was inside waiting for him.

Fuck, he was angry. So angry he wanted to kill him all over again. But anger was warring with relief and joy and, perhaps… Perhaps something else he refused to name. Something between awe and bewildered amusement.

Well. That was something he could think about later.

The moon watched, creeping over the back of his neck as he looked up at the lit apartment window and tried to decide how to proceed. This was a bad idea altogether, being here, but it was one that could not be avoided. How could he not come back here? How could he not see him?

There was no way he wouldn’t.

Should he barge in? Give Sherlock another verbal lashing? Should he come in quietly and ask the man to explain his _stupid_ brilliant self?

The door opened with a clack and a creak before he could make that decision, and there he was.

Damn it all, there he was.

Like he’d never left. Right there, in his fucking robe and his fucking pyjamas, like he’d been there the _whole fucking time_ waiting for John to come home with a jug of milk. John blinked, standing there because once again he’s caught off-guard, and it took a lot of grief to remember that the last two years even happened.

“John.” Was all Sherlock said, his long fingers wrapped around a package of frozen veg, which had undoubtedly come from Mrs. Hudson. Right. John dropped his eyes to the pavement for a second, licking his lips, because he’s already had a couple of goes at him and he doesn’t need to do it again. Part of him was still half-crazed with anger. But most of him… Most of him just wanted answers.

The man turned around and headed for the stairs. John followed, because there was nothing else he could do. And within three minutes, they were back in 221B, John feeling a surreal sense of de ja vu as Sherlock tossed the veg in the freezer and joined him in their usual sitting room position.

There was silence. They stared at each other, because while there was so much to say, neither of them quite knew where to start—what was right, what had to come first. How can either of them get to the point, say the words, and not crack into a sobbing mess of a man? John certainly didn’t know, and for all of his brilliance, it looked like Sherlock didn’t know either.

_How can you not know what you need to say to me?_ John wanted to ask, because he felt this furious need to hear it, felt like it should be obvious to both of them, even though he had no worldly idea what _it_ was.

“It was you.” He finally said, cutting through the bullshit, cutting through everything to the soft center of their heart—the heart of _this_. “The—the phone game. I thought I was going out of my mind, but it was you the whole time, having a laugh.”

A small, but very distinct quirk of Sherlock’s lips made John lose his breath.

“It wasn’t a laugh, John.” He said, his voice low in a way that made John’s insides knot. God, his voice… There was nothing like it on this planet, and nothing John could do but sink in.

Sink in…

“Shaun.” John said, his fingers curling on the armrests. Oh God. His eyes widened as Sherlock went perfectly still. He was never perfectly still, not unless he was caught. Oh God… Oh Dear God. Sherlock’s gaze met his again, and held it, and he felt his body blow back in his chair at the emotional explosion.

Shaun. Sherlock was Shaun.

In the back of his mind, he’d always thought… but having it laid out, right there, his heart and soul and all the things he’d said on the phone that night painted in the air between them was a hard shock. Sherlock just looked at him, chin lowered a little, eyes sharp and bruised with two years of seeing things they didn’t want to see.

It was ridiculous, how scary this was. This second.

“Why?” John finally asked, his question low and choked.

Sherlock looked up, his gaze holding on, his voice dropping to a whisper that hurt. “Because I missed you. I missed you the whole time. And I regretted leaving you behind with every breath, even though it was what I had to do.”

The words seemed to settle around them, filling the room, making everything—every logical reason there was to be angry—disappear. John stood, and didn’t realize he’d done it until he found himself looking down at Sherlock and found Sherlock’s face tipped up toward his. He took a step, and then another, and Sherlock didn’t move. His lips parted slightly. He was waiting for this.

He was looking forward to this.

“You… tortured me.” John whispered, staring down at Sherlock, who was staring up at him with something very close to the awe he’d had first seeing him again. “I waited. Every day, I waited and prayed that you would come ‘round a corner and…”

He trailed off. Sherlock seemed to know exactly what he was going to say. He seemed to know everything. That didn’t surprise him at all, but it frustrated him to no end.

“Your voice haunted me.” He whispered, his hand falling to touch Sherlock’s chin, feeling the hot, bruising skin and for once admitting to himself that this was all real, this had to be real. “For a year. Apologize.”

Then Sherlock drew a breath that was shaky, one that made him swallow, and John realized for the first time that Sherlock was just as scared as he was.

“I’m not sorry.” He said, as if that exempted him from everything, damn it all. “Your voice brought me home.”

John inhaled, and it felt like they were breathing each other in until their lips connected. It was the kind of kiss that had no brakes, the kind where John’s lips landed crooked, and slid into a lock, taking Sherlock’s lower lip between his. Sherlock opened his lips and there was no going back, ever again.

One hand braced itself on the arm of Sherlock’s chair as John leaned over him and took what he needed, teeth tugging that soft lower lip and pulling him closer without ever trying to. Sherlock’s body shifted up, leaning off the chair, and John pushed him back, his face turning so that his tongue could slide into his mouth and make him moan that soft, breathless moan he’d only heard once, and through a tinny phone receiver at that.

It hurt, how much he wanted Sherlock, how much he’d _wanted_ him this whole damn time. He bit down on that soft lower lip with enough strength to make Sherlock tremble, and to _feel_ that tremble was the kind of drug that would make a new addict of him. This—this here, in his hands—was the most perfect thing he’d ever known. And he wanted to break it into nothing and build it up again, because the bastard _deserved_ it.

Four long, spindly fingers and a thumb gripped his jumper and pulled, begging with a touch for John to please, for the love of God, never stop. But John moved his other hand, used it to grip at the dark brown curls he’d always resisted before, timid idiot that he was. Heaven knows why he was so timid.

You can’t be timid with Sherlock Holmes.

He gripped those curls with commanding strength and pulled back, wrenching Sherlock’s head back to expose that long pale neck. His hand held him just so, and Sherlock’s eyes opened, fucking gorgeous in their need for him. John took a second to assess his face, then leaned in, hissing against his neck. “Apologize.”

“No.” Sherlock said, in that low thunder roll of a voice. And then John _bit_ his throat, his jugular, and he let out a cry that made John shiver.

“ _Beg_ for me.”

“Please—”

“ _Beg_ for my _forgiveness_ , you lying, mind-fucking bastard.”

“ _John-!”_ Sherlock whined, his hips rocking off the seat as his hands pulled at John’s sweater. God, he was eager. And John loved it, loved that desperation. He’d keep Sherlock as desperate as he could.

John’s mouth moved low, pushing past Sherlock’s flimsy shirt to bite down on his clavicle, a move that made the returned consulting detective arch into him like he was made to. “You’re going to be so bloody sorry. You bastard, you knew. You knew I loved you, this whole fucking time.”

“Obvious.” Sherlock gasped, his hands dropping from John’s shirt to his hips. “You loved me since—”

“It doesn’t matter _when_ , Sherlock. You knew. You knew, and you fucking _want me_ , and you never did a damn thing.” John’s grip on his hair went stone, and he yanked him from the chair, pulling him up into a kiss that was nearly impossible given the height difference. But when Sherlock leaned down into it, so desperate for it that he refused to breathe without it, John knew he had him. He kissed him hard, his lips meshing wet and hungry with Sherlock’s and their tongues crossing paths and deciding to lock, much as they had that first day, when Sherlock had said _Afghanistan or Iraq_ and John had felt the amusing urge to just stand still and let the man figure him out for the rest of his life.

The kiss broke, but they held their stances, John’s hand still leashing Sherlock by his own hair, and Sherlock’s eyes so heavy and stuck on his. It was gorgeous to see, especially with those abused lips and that expression on his face, like the one he got when he was about to fling himself into something completely insane.

But this time it was serious.

John tugged, his hand forcing Sherlock to his knees, just where he wanted him. Watching him crumble, watching him hit the floor with those eyes huge on his face was like something out of a fantasy he’d allowed himself only once. Jesus in Heaven, _look_ at him. Lips parted, breath coming in fast little pants as he recovered from…

It was just beautiful.

“You remember our conversation.” John said, his hands pulling away from Sherlock to move to his pants. Fuck. Was he doing this? Was he really going to do this? Fleeting thoughts of Mary barely registered as he pulled his pants apart, unzipping them and letting them hang open. He reached inside.

“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice was barely a breath. He was watching John’s hand, holding himself to the floor with both hands at his sides.

“You remember every word, don’t you?” John hissed, his hand tugging his cock free from the confines of his briefs.

“Yes.” Sherlock said again, one hand reaching up to touch him as if it was all he’d ever wanted. But John took hold of him again, grabbing a tuft of those gorgeous curls and yanking his head back, refusing to let him have it so easily.

“Then _beg_.” He whispered, watching Sherlock swallow, watching him stare at his cock in a way that was making him harder with every second. The fact that he hadn’t lost control was a miracle.

Sherlock swallowed again, his voice coming out low and soft. “ _Please_ , John…”

“ _Please_?” John snapped, his hand pulling Sherlock’s head roughly to the side.

“ _Please_ , let me…” Sherlock whined a little, his eyes closing for just a moment before they opened again. “Let me have you. Please. Let me beg for mercy like this.”

John’s words caught in his throat. He pulled him in, dragging him by his beautiful curls to stay just a breath away from him. “Why should I?”

“Because I fucking _love_ you.” Sherlock hissed, or choked, it was rather hard to tell. His own breath unsteady as his eyes nearly crossed on John’s cock, and he was letting words come out unchecked, a sure sign that he’d been driven mad. “Idiot. I’ve loved you since I looked at you twice, since the moment I realized you were the instinct I didn’t have, the strength, the _heart_ that _fit_ me. Fuck all, are you going to let me have you or not?”

John was barely breathing at all by the time he was done. He exhaled and pulled him in, and when Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed around him he sucked in a breath. Large, boney hands fell to his hips, and he moved, stepping back to sit in the chair Sherlock had once occupied. And that’s when Sherlock truly had the vantage point he needed.

It was a dream, watching him like this. Holding onto his curls, guiding his head as he peeled back his foreskin with his lips and made love to his cock so effortlessly, as if he’d been dreaming just the same since the day they met. That tongue was a wild thing, exploring every inch of his shaft, every groove, every vein, and John tipped his head back, letting out a groan and reveling in it. Jesus. He could barely believe he was doing this, feeling this. He opened his eyes again, staring at the ceiling for a brief second before returning his gaze to Sherlock, whose eyes were stuck on his face with fascination normally reserved for intense experiments.

He gripped those curls tighter, holding those hot chips of sky for a second longer before he yanked him in, rocking his cock halfway down his throat. For a second Sherlock gagged, and it felt fucking _brilliant_ , but then he got with the program and took as much as he could, sucking him with hollowed cheeks and eyes closed in such bliss that John moaned for him.

“ _God_ , Sherlock…” He whispered heatedly, rolling his hips up to meet his mouth. It was impossible not to. He had to have every inch of this, every bit that he could.

Sherlock groaned himself, and they began a rhythm, slow and easy. Pushing in, pulling away, delicious wet sounds and wheezy, breathless moans that were the making and breaking of both of them. It didn’t take long for John to get close, to feel his body tighten and know that he was about to blow. He pulled at Sherlock’s curls, moaning the word. “ _Close_ …”

And the man didn’t stop. He slid his mouth up, sucking at the tip, his eyes on John Watson’s face. And within three seconds, John was spilling down his throat with a groan muffled by his own fist.

Heavy breaths and silence followed. Sherlock milked him dry, and what he couldn’t take, he wiped away with a discreet hand. John just breathed, hazy eyes on the ceiling, hand slowly releasing Sherlock’s hair.

“God, Sherlock…” He said again, because he couldn’t think of any other words.

“ _John_.” Sherlock whispered, his voice hoarse with longing, among other things. John looked down at him and found him just how he left him, that sharp longing in his eyes, those lips swollen and glossy, his legs bent beneath him at such an awkward angle that only he could be comfortable.

That tent in those pyjamas.

John reached down, gripped Sherlock’s chin, and yanked him up into a kiss that was as maddening as the first. The robe tumbled to the floor, and he pulled him into his lap, and they stayed there for ten whole minutes before Sherlock pulled away and dragged John into the bedroom he used to call his own.

\--

When Sherlock woke to an empty bed in the afternoon, it felt like the beginning of a very long punishment.

His neck was bruised, bitten. His ass was sore, pummeled well into dawn. And he had the biggest grin on his face.

Well and truly fucked over. They both were. Mary, too, though at least she didn’t know it.

He laughed deliriously to himself and stretched, debating on whether he should text, or badger Lestrade for a case and wait for John’s lead. And when he rolled, he rolled onto a piece of paper.

_Shaun-_

  _Call me for a good time. You’ve got my number, and now I’ve got yours._

_-Richie._

_PS: I hope you’ll feel last night for weeks. But if you don't, I'll be glad to refresh your memory._

Sherlock grinned.

He’d wait until midnight. And then he’d make a call.


End file.
